"He missed the funeral," a woman laughed on the Fenwick terrace.
"Did he?" another voice leaned in like it wanted proof.
"You were at her funeral?" Annika Jensen's voice cut through the ripple of champagne and low laughter. Everybody heard her.
"I didn't know there was one," Roman said.
Silence landed like a fist. Glass clinked. A man near the terrace edge let out a soft, cruel chuckle.
"Of course you didn't," a woman said. "You never know anything, do you?"
"Roman," Annika said, small and sharp. "Is that true?"
"It is," Roman answered. His tone was flat. He kept his hands by his sides.
"Where were you?" someone else asked. The question sounded like an accusation and a verdict.
Kaitlyn Daugherty laughed a practiced laugh. "Maybe he was busy," she offered to the room and to the cameras a table had quietly gathered. A camera phone flashed.
"Busy?" the first woman mocked. "Busy avoiding responsibility."
"Do you deny it?" Annika asked again, and her calm was brittle.
Roman looked at his mother. He looked at Kaitlyn. He looked at the terrace, the sea glass lights, the city skyline arranged like a smug jury.
"I didn't know there was a funeral," he repeated.
A hand moved faster than a thought. A woman stood, went over, and slapped him across the face. The sound broke the terrace like a thrown plate.
"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you skip her funeral."
Roman's hand flew to
